


Ex Nihilo

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Titan AE (2000)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Haunting, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Cale doesn't believe in ghosts.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocturnal08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnal08/gifts).



> Dear Yuletide Giftee, I had SO MUCH FUN writing this fic -- I very much hope you enjoy! (Sincerely, a Very Anonymous Someone)

No one calls the new planet Bob. Cale probably shouldn't be disappointed—he wasn't _serious_ about that exactly, mostly he was just trying to get a rise out of Akima—but really. Come on. It's _his_ planet. He should get some say in what to call it.

(Fine, Bob isn't his planet. Bob is a legacy for all of humanity. They've been a lost population long enough. But damn it, Cale is still the entire reason it's here.)

More ships arrive before long. Human ships only. As though, unlikely as it seems, the rest of the universe is giving them time to settle in and claim what's theirs. And it _is_ theirs. This planet that didn't exist before, no one else can argue any corner of ownership.

"There are more people out there," Akima says, the day a third full drifter colony settles into orbit over Bob's equator. Cale has a hard time believing her—he's already spoken with more humans than he met in his entire lifespan before the Titan—but he's learned not to question the things that come out of Akima's mouth. He's literally never witnessed her in the wrong.

"They'll come eventually," Cale says. They're standing at the very top of a tower that used to be a ninety-crew clipper. It's not the only barely-space-worthy ship that's been repurposed into more practical housing on the surface of the planet. There are plenty of natural resources to work with—eventually people will start building real, permanent homes—but for the moment this is what they have. A miniature cityscape made of hulls and scrap metal, its confines slowly expanding across a level plane.

When the renovators of this particular building offered Cale and Akima the apartment unit on the topmost floor, Akima had wanted to refuse. She didn't want to take advantage. Cale can respect that in the abstract, but in the practical moment they _needed_ somewhere to stay. Somewhere to live. A home.

Something in his eyes must have convinced her, because his words have never been enough to change Akima's stubborn mind about anything.

"Not everyone _can_ come," Akima answers softly, leaning on the edge of the small metal balcony that juts out from the side of the apartment. "The drifter colonies are all on their way by now, but that's not even half the human population. What about the rest? The ones without ships of their own? The ones who can't afford passage, who can't get close?"

Cale stares at her, trying to figure out where this is going. "I don't see how there's anything we can do about that."

Akima smiles, an expression more humoring than anything. "We can go get them." Then, amending before he can get the look of startled shock off of his face, "Or… I can go get them. Gune and Stith are on their way, I already contacted them."

"What about me?"

"You should stay."

"You don't want me along?" Cale doesn't like how plaintive his voice sounds, but damn it, he's sick of being left behind.

Akima's expression goes softer. "Of course I want you along. But you're needed here. You _made this planet_ , Cale. You can't abandon ship now. The people who are coming need you."

That's how the conversation closes. Cale still tries to argue—he'd rather go on a scavenger hunt aboard the Valkyrie than stay here and do… whatever the hell it is Akima thinks needs doing. But there's no overcoming the firm logic of Akima's argument. So she goes. She leaves him behind, giving only the vaguest answers about how long it will take, how long she'll be _gone_ , because the truth is there's no guessing. They don't know how many people they're looking for. They don't know how far they'll have to go.

The universe is a big place, and Cale has only ever seen a tiny fraction of it.

\- — - — - — - — -

The ships full of humans arriving on Bob—New Earth as everyone else so predictably calls it— _do_ need him, it turns out. And the idea scares the absolute hell out of Cale.

There's nothing so formal as a government yet, but the different governing councils from the drifter colonies unite on solid ground to discuss what happens now. And they keep asking Cale what _he_ thinks. How they should proceed. How to balance the needs of a growing population, most of whom are still staying in their ships above the planet—those aren't vessels capable of landing—but all of whom have set foot at least once on the solid ground of the planet's surface. They need to figure out how to best use the natural resources around them without spoiling their new home. In the longer term, they need to figure out how to share this space among an entire population. There's plenty of land to go around, but that doesn't mean finding the fairest balance will be easy.

Cale mostly keeps quiet through one, two, three meetings like this. Growing more and more riled with each passing moment. Anxiety is a tight fist in his chest. He'd call it 'self doubt' but the word isn't strong enough. He hates this feeling.

He hates the clawing certainty in his gut telling him he's going to let all these people down.

On the fourth day of the Summit—that's what they're calling these leadership meetings now, though Cale didn't weigh in on that, either—he skips out on the meeting and starts packing a bag. He doesn't know where he can possibly go, hasn't gotten more than short cryptic updates from the Valkyrie in months and wouldn't know where to start looking for his friends, but he can't stay put another second. The weight of everyone's expectations is crushing him. He can't walk into that room full of serious faces again.

"Running away already?" asks a voice—a familiar voice—that rumbles with gravel.

Cale whirls, startled and disbelieving, because there's no way. There's no fucking way. " _Korso_?"

But the apartment behind him is empty. Cluttered, messy, full of Cale's careless life. But empty. He's as alone now as he was when he woke up this morning. Hallucinating apparently—and isn't that new and alarming and fucked up—but entirely alone. He keeps packing.

"You're making the coward's call," the voice says again when Cale finally seals his duffel shut.

Cale spins once more on his heel, because there's no way— _no way_ his mind is conjuring the clear, sturdy sound of that voice whole cloth—even if the alternative is even more impossible. He expects an empty room again just the same.

Instead he finds Joseph Korso leaning on the edge of the metal storage bureau that passes for Cale's desk. He's got his hip cocked against the smooth surface, his arms crossed over his chest, and a smug-as-all-fuck smirk on his face. Cale blinks a moment, as mistrustful of his eyes as he is of his ears. Korso is dead, and this? This is officially not possible.

But he finds himself drifting closer anyway, across the cluttered floor of the small apartment, until he's standing almost close enough to touch. Staring. Taking in the surprisingly welcome sight of the man who found him—betrayed him—then saved his life.

Korso looks _wrong_ , he realizes now that he's closer. Insubstantial. Cale has the strangest sense that he could see _through_ Korso if he squinted. So he does. And through Korso's broad chest, he can just make out the wall of shelves holding Akima's knickknacks and treasures.

Cale refocuses, makes himself meet the hard glint of dark eyes. "What the _fuck_?"

"Good to see you, too," Korso retorts.

"You can't be real," Cale says. "You died. I looked for you. There was nothing _left_."

"I don't know what to tell you, kid." Korso shrugs carelessly, but there's a stiff edge to the gesture. The conman showing his hand a little more honestly than he probably means to. It's this, more than any other gut instinct or evidence, that convinces Cale the man is really here. The Korso in his head is a lot of things, a conflicted mess of memories—kind and encouraging, suave and calm, angry and cold, vicious and selfish—but never uncertain. Never scared. Even if the stress of the Summit is fucking with Cale's head, no way he dreamed this Korso up for himself.

"How are you here?" he asks quietly.

"Hell if I know," Korso says. "Everything's spotty after the Titan. I remember the Drej incoming, and the busted clamp. The manual override didn't work, so I had to wedge my gun inside to close the circuit." Korso uncrosses his arms and looks down at his hands. They're scarred and singed. "Guess I didn't get out in time."

"So you… are dead?" The thought twists sickly in Cale's stomach. His expression must be something awful to behold, because when Korso looks at him again there's no hint of smugness. There's a softer look in his eyes. A quiet regret.

"Must be," Korso says. He folds his arms again, cocks his head to one side. The unbreakable facade is suddenly back in place. Cale can't see any hint of regret now. Just dry humor, careless disinterest. "I'm still me. I think. Started… seeing things? Perceiving things? Not too long ago. It's hard to tell how much time is passing. Even harder to get anyone to notice I'm _here_."

"I can see you just fine."

"I'm making an extra effort," Korso says, and it's all the explanation he offers. "You looked like you needed someone to set your priorities straight."

Cale takes a backward step. "Why? Because I'm leaving?" He glares. "I don't see how that's your business."

"It's not," Korso agrees easily. "But believe me, you don't want to do this. Sneaking out like a thief when all those people think they need you?"

"They _don't_ need me," Cale retorts heavily.

"Hey, you don't need to convince _me_ of that. You're not the only cosmic fuckup in this room. We recognize our own." Korso falls unexpectedly serious. "But if you leave now? You'll regret it for the rest of your life."

"Fuck off," Cale snaps. He turns his back on Korso. Reaches down to hoist his duffel over one shoulder.

"Trust me, kid," Korso says behind him. "I know a thing or two about regret."

Cale stands perfectly still for several painful seconds. Eventually, grudgingly, he turns his head and looks back over his shoulder. The room is empty again. There's no sign of Korso—no hint that he was ever here.

Cale sighs and slumps, because Korso is right. He can't leave now. He lets the strap slide from his shoulder and the bag hit the floor with a dull thud.

\- — - — - — - — -

Days later, it's all too easy to convince himself he imagined Korso's presence. There's been no sign since. The quiet of his empty apartment is the only true solitude he has amid a startling and ever growing number of demands on his time. Akima still hasn't returned. Her room—a perfect match for Cale's at the opposite end of the apartment—is perpetually closed, because something about the open door makes Cale lonely. He's gone so long watching his own back, it's weird to miss someone's company.

 _Of course there's been no sign of Korso_ , Cale admonishes himself in his more rational moments. There's no way Korso was actually there; no way he was anything but an uninvited figment of Cale's own imagination. Nothing but a voice from his own head arguing the part of the devil's advocate, because Cale knew damn well he belongs here, even if his first instinct _is_ to run.

He's not sure what it means that his imagination conjured Korso, of all people, to play the voice of reason. Seems a poor casting choice. But then again, maybe it makes all the sense in the world. For all that Cale's not the forgiving sort—he's not letting go of Korso's betrayal anytime soon—he got attached. He can admit it to himself; Korso meant a damn to him. And he's furious at the bastard for dying before Cale figured out how to deal with the knife in his back.

He almost wishes it had been a real knife. Cale's always been better at dealing with physical pain.

At the meetings—the ongoing Summit of New Earth—the colony leaders have started making more and more decisions without making Cale speak up, and he's grateful for that. He still has a seat at the table, a place in the room, a right to weigh in if he disagrees. But he's been allowed to shift to the periphery of the discussion. It's a better arrangement for everyone. If only he could shrug off the sense of obligation that keeps him coming back, day after day after day.

Obligation never has sat comfortably on his shoulders.

After two months of life on Bob, Cale has seen several small cities with his own eyes. They spring up with startling speed once the Summit decides on a new spot, building firm foundations out of materials both natural and recycled. The resulting skylines are a strange mix of elegant wood and metal walls, cement and steel, stonework towers alongside the hollowed out cylinders of engine blocks a hundred feet high. Streets are flattened and paved with a smooth compound normally used for patching hull exteriors, and the result is a gunmetal gray surface that glints in direct sunlight.

It's beautiful, Cale thinks when he visits these works in progress, and again when he returns to see finished streets and houses. It feels dangerously like a _home_.

Alone in his own apartment, he reads a message from Akima and Gune—text only, because conversation in realtime isn't possible from halfway across the known galaxy—and is surprised he doesn't feel lonely. Maybe it's because, even though his friends are absent, he's surrounded by more people than he's ever known in the sum total of his life. Maybe it's the knowledge, confident in his chest, that Akima will be back. She's in no danger—at least, she's in no more danger than usual. And if _Cale_ is starting to consider this planet home, then there's no way Akima—who's been searching her entire life—will leave the place behind. Cale's pretty sure she wouldn't abandon _him_ , either, but that's an area where his confidence is shakier. People don't stick around for him. They never have.

The sun is already setting by the time Cale finishes sending his reply, and he stands from his desk and crosses the apartment. The sliding metallic doors at the north side of the room used to be an interior portal, the balcony on the other side only one piece of the enormous airlock. The doors have been modified since, fitted with transparent aluminum to allow a generous amount of sunlight inside—or in this case, a vivid view of the sunset falling naturally across the horizon.

Cale sweeps a hand over the sensor panel, and the doors part and slide open with a quiet whoosh. Outside, the wind is chilly on his bare arms as he steps to the edge of the balcony, where a long piece of metal has been twisted into a railing along the periphery. The sky has gone a bruised purple, brighter at the bottom edge along the horizon, dark as midnight directly above.

There are no clouds. Cale stares at the stars and feels impossibly small.

"Nice view."

Cale jumps at the sound of Korso's voice, cricks his neck painfully when he turns his head too fast. Korso slouches to his immediate right, leaning his forearms on the metal railing and staring out across the horizon with a serious expression.

"You're back," Cale breathes. _You're real_ , is what he means but doesn't say. He's too terrified that if he says the words out loud, Korso will simply disappear again. Like last time. Like he was never there in the first place. And Cale will go right back to assuming he imagined this. Whatever the hell _this_ is.

Korso shrugs, clasps his hands where they dangle over the railing. "Guess so." He doesn't offer anything else, not that Cale expects him to. No answers. No reason he's here. Ghosts aren't real. This isn't possible. Korso can't be _haunting him_.

But Cale is short on other explanations.

Korso is still staring out across the horizon—past the edges of the city that's come to serve as the capital of New Earth—over plains and trees in the direction of the nearest, next largest city. There's no view of that city from here—it's too far away for the sparkle of lights to reach them—but Korso keeps staring that direction anyway. Probably a coincidence. Definitely a coincidence. But it's eerie just the same.

Cale takes the opportunity to study Korso's profile, not caring if he's being rude and obvious about it. There's tension in the strong line of Korso's jaw, an unaccustomed tightness to the thin press of his scowl. His eyes look more tired than Cale ever noticed when Korso was alive, in the all too brief—and all too disastrous—span of their acquaintance.

And, Cale notices with a start, Korso is _glowing_. It's faint, barely noticeable while there's still the illusory light of sunset filling the air. As the last vestiges of sunlight dip and vanish, the glow becomes a fraction more visible. Blue and pulsing steadily around Korso's not quite opaque form.

"What?" Korso doesn't turn his head.

"Nothing," Cale says. If Korso hasn't noticed for himself, then maybe this is in Cale's head too. 

He turns his attention outward again, back to the sky where it belongs. Doesn't bother talking. Whether Korso is real or not, Cale doesn't have anything to say to him. Nothing that won't end in fury and accusations, anyway. And Cale is tired. The last thing he wants is a fight, especially a fight with the impossible man who seems to be haunting him.

A tickle along his spine tells him Korso is watching _him_ now, but Cale doesn't acknowledge the sensation. Whatever Korso is looking for, he's not going to find it in the stiff lines of Cale's best poker face.

"I'm sorry," Korso says.

Cale's chest goes tight with some jarring mix of surprise and disbelief, and he twists his whole body to gawp at Korso. The practiced blank of his expression has fallen away, and he knows he's broadcasting every single feeling to dart through his head. But he can't seem to put the mask back on. Those two words are the last he ever expected to hear.

 _What the fuck_? he wants to ask, but can't seem to find his voice past the sudden tightness in his throat.

Korso meets his eyes stubbornly. "Don't look at me like that, kid. I'm completely serious."

Cale continues to stare in uncomprehending silence.

Korso is the first to break. He sighs, shoulders falling dramatically as he slouches lower over the railing and drops his eyes to stare straight down. Toward the ground far below, and the population of the city going about the business of late evening.

"I let you down," Korso says in an impossibly quiet voice. "I stabbed you in the back when you should've been able to trust me. Don't get me wrong, I never meant to let the Drej hurt you—that wasn't part of the plan—but it doesn't make what I did any less shitty."

"The Drej," Cale echoes, feeling heat rise beneath his skin. Anger hardens his voice when he says, " _You_ tried to kill me."

He's surprised Korso doesn't try to deny it. "I panicked. What can I say, I'm an asshole. Always have been."

Cale growls, twisting forward, tearing his eyes off the resigned expression on Korso's face, the beaten-down look of his posture. The railing is cold when Kale curls his fingers tight around the twisting lines of metal, grounding himself the best he can. Trying to let go of the tidal wave of anger before it swamps him. For several seconds he thinks he's going to fail. He's going to find out if Korso—ghost or memory or hallucination—has a tangible presence, because Cale is going to punch him in his tired, traitorous face.

But as quickly as the anger rose, it fades. Evaporating into the cool nighttime air. Leaving Cale shaken and shaking.

Korso is dead. What's the point of being angry at a dead man? Cale spent his whole life being furious at his father, and what did that get him besides a shitty outlook and a planet-sized chip on his shoulder?

Nothing is what. It didn't even make him wary enough to recognize the inevitability of Korso's betrayal.

Cale exhales slowly, and the worst of the ramrod tightness drains from his spine. "So… what?" he says. "You're sorry, and that's supposed to just… fix everything? Just like that?"

"Hell no. Apologies don't fix shit." Korso is watching him again—Cale can feel it—and there's raw honesty in the gravel of his voice. "I'm still dead. You're still a mess. That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

Korso gives a one-shouldered shrug. "The point is, _I'm sorry_. And whatever else happens, I just needed you to know."

\- — - — - — - — -

Korso shows up more often after that. No more wondering if he'll be back—he's never gone for more than a day or two before he returns to Cale's side. There's something restless in his presence. Like he feels trapped. Even when he appears places besides Cale's apartment unit—a happenstance that starts to occur more and more often—his bluster conceals something lost and maybe even scared.

He only appears when Cale's alone. It's enough to try anyone's sanity.

"Have you tried to haunt anyone else?" Cale asks once.

Korso gives him a piercing look. "Of course I have. No one else sees me. And it's not worth the effort just to hang around completely invisible."

"Oh." Cale's brow knits. "I… guess I assumed it was getting easier. For you to be here. You're around _all the time_ lately."

Korso shrugs. "Just because I'm getting better at it, doesn't mean it's easy." Then, looking elsewhere in a way that has to be deliberate, "Besides. It doesn't take quite as much out of me to be around you."

"Oh." Cale doesn't know what to make of that. It's relevant. There has to be a reason. But he can't imagine what the reason might be.

Korso waves a dismissive hand through the air. Cale's footsteps crunch over small stones—they're walking through an unexplored valley, all graveled ravines and low cliffs, scattered underbrush, no trees—and it's more than a little surreal the way Korso moves so silently beside him. Unless he's speaking, there's nothing to give away his presence. No footfalls, no jarring of the gravel beneath his feet. His hair doesn't move when the wind gusts through the ravine. He doesn't seem to feel the cold that's long since forced Cale to don the jacket he brought along.

"So. Tell me. What's this Council Summit of yours up to?"

Cale's brow furrows. "Why do you care?"

"What, just because I'm dead I can't be interested in current affairs?"

"You fed me a crock of bullshit about how I was humanity's last hope, then tried to sell the Titan off to the highest bidder," Cale points out. "I'm just a little surprised you give a damn."

Korso snorts. "I'm greedy, not heartless. You pulled off a miracle with this place, kid. I'm just curious how things are going"

Cale considers that. Decides there's sincerity beneath Korso's gruff tone. So he answer honestly. Tells Korso about the long meetings, the disagreements and compromises, the intimidating minutia of creating something designed to last. The constant arrivals of more and more humans, the fear of other species taking an interest in their new and barely settled planet.

"Tell me you've at least got some defenses in place."

"Sure," Cale says. "Plenty of the colony vessels are armed, and they're still in orbit. Fully manned. Plus the Summit Council has been approving funds to buy more. Defense grid satellites. Weapons and shielding technology. We've got resources to trade now. We're figuring it out."

Korso is silent for a long time, taking in his words. The quiet lasts long enough for Cale to get lost in his own head for a moment.

Long enough for Cale to ask without really intending to, "What about the Drej?"

"What about the Drej?" Korso parrots gruffly, though not unkindly. "And why are you asking me? I'm dead, remember?"

"But you worked with them. You made a deal with them. I was only ever their prisoner, but you were their partner."

Korso scoffs. "I wouldn't call it a partnership." But there's a thoughtfulness to his next several seconds of quiet, and eventually he answers, "The ship that tried to take us out on the Titan… That wasn't just any ship. That was… I'm not sure what to call it exactly. Their nerve center? The brain of their fleet? The way the Drej function, the way they fight, it's not a hierarchy. With their main ship gone, they're in serious trouble."

Cale breathes sharply in, hating the racket of unexpected hope speeding his pulse. "You mean they're gone?"

"No." Korso's tone is firm, emphatic. "No, they'll be back. But it will take a hell of a long time. Decades. Maybe longer. They're in fragments right now. That gives you time to prepare."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Cale asks, more sharply than he intends.

"You didn't ask," Korso says. Then, softer, like he's not sure he should admit it, "I… didn't really _remember_ until you asked."

"Oh." Cale's irritation evaporates. An especially cold gust of wind cuts across the landscape, making Cale shiver hard despite the layers of thermal protection in his coat. "We should probably head back to the shuttle." He's been walking for nearly an hour—it's going to be a long hike back to the empty scouting shuttle that brought him.

When he turns to reverse his steps, Korso is gone again, and Cale has to walk the distance back alone.

\- — - — - — - — -

Cale doesn't believe in ghosts.

The more often Korso visits him, the more sure he grows. Stubborn, but somehow certain. Either this is a figment of his own strained mind, or something else is going on.

He's never had any knack for science, but he borrows some scanning equipment from the the Summit Council's research division—doesn't ask permission first, but he _does_ leave a note promising to return everything exactly the way he found it—and smuggles it into his apartment. There's a computer station built into the wall beside his desk, still functional. He hooks the borrowed equipment into the circuitry. Leaves it running even whenever he's there.

Then it's only a matter of time—of occasionally checking the readouts—and waiting for Korso to appear.

He doesn't have to wait long. That very night, he turns around with his dinner in hand, freshly warmed from the small food prep unit in the corner, and finds Korso peering down at the bewildering array of cords and scanners and computer drives. Cale doesn't startle; he's grown weirdly accustomed to company that literally appears out of thin air.

"What's all this?" Korso circles the desk, eyeing the setup and furrowing his brow.

Cale stuffs a corner of his dinner into his mouth—a tasty arrangement of cheese and breading and some kind of meat he doesn't even know the name of—and crosses the room to Korso's side. " _That_ is scanning equipment," he answers with his mouth full.

Korso's brow only furrows more deeply. "Why?"

Cale shrugs. "Just hoping it can give me some answers."

Korso blinks at him for a long moment before realizing aloud, "Answers about _me_."

"You're not a ghost," Cale says. "I don't believe in ghosts. Which means there's some other explanation, and I'm going to find it. There's no point asking _you_ if you're a figment of my imagination, so this seemed like the next logical step."

Korso doesn't argue. But he is quiet for the rest of his brief appearance.

Once he's gone, Cale cracks into the results of his ongoing scans.

"Oh, thank god," he breathes when he reads the data. There's an unmistakable spike in energy that lines up perfectly with Korso's presence. Cale isn't losing his mind. He isn't imagining anything.

The question remains, what to do about it.

He considers trying to keep this to himself. Trying to figure it out on his own, stubborn loner that he is. But in the end he knows that way lies only defeat. This isn't his area of expertise—he doesn't really _have_ an area of expertise—which means if he's got any hope if figuring out what's actually going on, he needs help.

But then, isn't that what humans do? Help each other?

When he takes the scanning equipment back to the science team, he brings a copy of all the data he's collected. He hates asking for help from anyone, feels sheepish as hell trying to explain what's going on, what he needs. Hell, he more than half expects them to laugh in his face and send him on his way.

But the team takes him seriously. They promise to look over his data. To keep him informed. To let him know as soon as they have anything substantial.

Cale leaves the lab with a nauseating mixture of uncertainty and relief in his chest. He doesn't know precisely what he's hoping for. But he wants answers. And for the first time in months, it seems he's actually going to get them.

\- — - — - — - — -

"What the hell are you grinning about?" Korso asks when he appears on the balcony beside Cale. Korso's presence has been more sporadic lately, but he still never leaves Cale hanging for more than a couple days at a time. He looks suspicious now, watching Cale with narrowed eyes.

Cale knows he looks smug. He's got news. Exciting news. After weeks of meeting with the science team, running more scans, listening to them argue about principles of physics and electromagnetism and chemistry that he couldn't begin to follow, everything is about to change.

"You're not dead," he announces, despite the faint, cruel temptation to keep Korso in suspense a little longer.

"Say that again?" Korso's eyes narrow even further, his brow lowering heavily.

"You're not dead," Cale repeats. "You're… out of phase. The dredge energy weapon that hit you knocked you out of our plane of existence. Or perception. Or… something, look, I don't really understand all this myself. But you're _not dead_. You're just lost." Lost, and it was only Cale who could have found him—something about cellular memory and his own experiences with Drej—more science so far beyond Cale's comprehension that he doesn't even try to explain.

"Lost," Korso echoes. "Sounds about right."

Cale falters. "Why don't you seem happier about it?"

Korso's expression is more of a glower than anything. "Because what good is _knowing_? I can't do anything about it. So I'm… out of phase? Why's that any better than being a ghost?"

Here Cale grins, smug and assured once more. "Because I can bring you back."

Korso stares. Cale waits, but Korso just keeps right on gaping at him. Shell shocked. Disbelieving. Stunned to complete silence.

"I'm serious," Cale says at last, taking pity on him. "The scientists who have been helping me sort through all this data, they think we can reverse what happened. Pull you back from… wherever the hell you are."

Korso's startled mouth shuts with a click of teeth. There's another lingering beat of silence, and then he asks, "When?"

"Right now if you want." Cale hesitates, knowing he needs to be honest about this. "It's dangerous. They've never done anything like it before, and you know how unstable Drej energy can be. But they sound confident it will work."

"What's the worst case scenario?"

Cale makes himself say the words. "You could die. For real." The admission feels heavy and unpleasant on his tongue. He can't accept the truth of it. No matter how angry he is at Korso—and it's a rage that will probably stay with him to the day he dies, because Cale's never been good at letting go of a grudge—he's not ready for Korso to be gone.

"Let's do it," Korso says, taking the decision and the worst of the fear out of Cale's hands.

\- — - — - — - — -

It's a complicated procedure, not least because they have to wait until Korso is actually _there_ , and then act before he disappears again. Cale wonders if it's even possible for Korso to appear when he's around other people—it hasn't happened before—but maybe Korso is making an extra effort, because when he appears in the science lab there are half a dozen techs there and at work.

The lead scientist, a frazzled and skinny genius named Hammond, obviously doesn't see Korso. But that's all right. He doesn't need to see him to know what the changing, pinging pitch of the localized energy readouts means.

"He's here," Cale says anyway.

"Good, good." Hammond bustles over to Cale's side. "Please tell him to enter the magnetic transparency chamber. Time is of the essence."

The chamber is just a glorified metal tube in a corner of the lab, covered along the outside with a bewildering variety of control panels and readouts. Cale gestures toward it. "Get in there. I'll close you in."

Korso gives him a skeptical look but obeys, stepping through the open hatch. There's nothing inside the chamber—it's perfectly empty, nowhere to sit—not even space enough to settle on the floor. It looks uncomfortable as hell. But then, whatever its normal use, it's probably not meant for accommodating humans. Cale gives Korso a tight-lipped smile, and shoulders the heavy door closed. It hisses and latches automatically in place, locking shut.

"Please stand back," Hammond says, urging Cale away so that his team can descend on the chamber and begin to work.

Cale hates that he can't tell what they're doing. He hates feeling redundant. Useless as he paces back and forth along the far end of the lab. The only thing he can do is stay out from underfoot, and wait—and wait—and _wait_ through the hours they work.

He's stopped pacing and seated himself on the floor by the time Hammond returns to his side. Cale is exhausted, his posture slumped against the cool wall. It must be nearly dawn, judging by how fiercely his eyes are trying to close without his consent.

Hammond offers him a hand, and Cale accepts the help rising to his feet, legs and ass tingling with pins and needles.

"Did it work?" Cale asks, trepidation tight in his gut.

Hammond smiles—and it's not a pitying smile—then gestures across the lab. "See for yourself."

Cale's breath catches hard in his chest at the sight of Korso—real, solid, undeniable—emerging from the small tube. There are handshakes from the scientists (Cale never did tell them who Korso is, what he's done), welcoming him back, accepting his thanks. And then, before Cale can make any move of his own, Korso is shouldering past the small crowd and heading straight for him.

There's an unsteady moment when Korso reaches him where they just stand there staring at each other, neither one sure how they're meant to react. They've been such regular company for the past several months, but this is different. Cale has no idea what to say. He has no idea what to _do_. So he stands perfectly still, waiting for Korso to make the first move.

He's startled—more like shocked—when Korso laughs and drags him into a crushing hug. Strong arms close around Cale's shoulders, tugging him against Korso's broad chest.

Cale stiffens only for an instant before relief floods him, and he finds himself wrapping his arms around Korso in return. Hugging him back and holding on as tight as he can. It should feel awkward, but it doesn't. It feels _right_. Like the one thing they haven't fucked up.

"Welcome home," Cale mutters against Korso's shoulder, and Korso laughs again, squeezing him tighter before letting go and retreating a couple steps.

"So what now, kid?"

Cale shrugs. "You hungry? There's a commissary downstairs. You haven't eaten in months, we should probably do something about that."

"Perfect," Korso says. "Lead the way."

Cale does, grinning as they navigate narrow hallways and winding stairs. No lingering anger can undercut how thrilled he is that this actually _worked_. That Korso is back. That he's _here_. It's complicated and messy and weird as hell, and Cale is thrilled to the point of distraction. He doesn't know how he's going to explain all this to Akima when she gets back. Maybe he should tell her in a letter, now, while she's still out in the middle of nowhere. Give her a chance to warm up to the idea so she doesn't ride in guns blazing.

"You okay, kid?" Korso is eyeing him, seems concerned at the manic expression on Cale's face.

"Yup." Cale grins wider. "Hurry up, old man. I'm starving."

\- — - FIN - — -


End file.
